


Helping Hand

by cuntoid



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: BIG alien dick, Blood, Daddy Kink, F/M, Fearplay, Humiliation, Molestation, Other, Pet Names, Public Sex, Public Transportation, alien dick, blowjob, dubcon, filthy dirty disgusting big bad clown, handjob, noncon, strap in yall this is nasty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 03:54:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13539174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuntoid/pseuds/cuntoid
Summary: Pennywise keeps you company on a long bus ride - lucky you.





	Helping Hand

“ _Pssst_ – sweetheart – you mind makin’ room for an old fool?” 

You jump at the voice, startlingly clear in the midst of your music, and yank an earbud free of its home. There’s a brief moment just after turning to address the owner of the voice in which fear has you absolutely paralyzed – the man seeking your neighboring seat is dressed in full clown garb, a painted smirk slanting his lips. Too bewildered to refuse, you move your bag and allow the clown to have the seat. It’s only as he grumbles his thanks and adjusts to a comfortable position that you realize the bus is barely full. There are empty seats everywhere, especially in the rows surrounding you. 

“Excuse the ruffles,” he kids, pulling a cigar from the folds of them like a magic trick. He winks and parks the cigar at the corner of his lips, lighting a match from a packet with a painting of a bowl of fruit on the jacket. The small illustration holds your attention, pulling at you like the moon, hollow as a bell as alarm reverberates off your ribs and constricts your guts. The fruit is wrong, somehow. Before you can fully understand what’s wrong about the matchbook, he pockets it and takes an exaggerated drag, smoke curling from his red nostrils in delicate threads. 

“Isn’t that… illegal? Smoking on the bus?” 

“Not for me it ain’t, honey. You could say this is an old _haunt_ of mine. Why, huh? Big bad clown botherin’ you?” 

You remove the other earbud in surrender to this interesting new development, shaking your head in the negative. You give his uniform a closer look, resisting the urge to pinch a snatch of the fabric to feel if it’s as silky as it looks. His gloves look tailored to fit the precise shape of his hand, each finger beautifully wrapped in satin without any sign of wear or ill fit. He catches you staring and flexes those fingers, wiggling them as if to further showcase the durability of the fabric. 

“Sorry,” you mumble, ducking to smile. “Not many times I’ve been this close to a clown. Just admiring your outfit.” 

“Yeah?” He laughs a little and ashes the cigar into the aisle. He shifts and slouches back in his seat, those bright, blue-lidded eyes sliding over your body like oil. There isn’t one bit of makeup on his face that looks poorly applied, so natural and matte that it could be his genuine skin. Teeth sharpened to cannibal-points wink at you from between his red, red lips, spit-slicked and threatening behind curls of thick smoke. “Why don’t you tell me more about what you like.” 

His pupils could swallow worlds, eating into the honeyed amber of his irises and drawing you into their mysterious depths. _There are things in there._ The thought floats up from somewhere in the back of your mind, the barest whisper of a warning that freezes your spine into a stiff column of ice. The man clucks his tongue and shakes his head a little, plucking the cigar from its home and licking his lips. You shudder in horror as a lick of heat comes to life deep in your belly. His mouth is all you can think of – his mouth, and the endless ring of alarm steeping in your blood. 

“’Scuse my manners, honey. The name’s Bob, but you can call me Pennywise.” 

He extends a hand and you take it, trading your name for his. His fingers are long enough to wrap around your hand if he became so inclined. The gloves feel strange; they’re not silky like you’d guessed them to be. They’re unlike any other texture, and the disconnect of looking at his hands and not knowing what to make of them is, in a word, disorienting. Touching him has your pulse ticking a little faster, cheeks flushed in the wake of the blood roaring in your ears, tinny and distant as though on the verge of fainting. A brief image plays in the back of your mind – your inevitable slump against him, unconscious and left entirely to his mercy. Where would his sharp teeth go, _then?_ His strange hands?

“That’s a pretty name. Almost as pretty as _you_ are, sweetheart. Anyone ever tell you your mouth could make a man cry?” 

It’s impossible not to avert your gaze, giddy with fear and some strange breed of excitement swirling around your mind. You feel drunk, fingers trembling just slightly as they close into fists over your thighs. 

“Not, uh… not lately, not like that,” you mumble. The need to hear more fills you with shame. Whether you want this clown to keep flirting with you or leave is a toss-up, buried under a billion layers of indecision building up like sediment, like pressure under deep waters. This must be what the bends feel like, blood bubbling rich with nitrogen as he dazzles you to your own demise. 

But _is_ he? Is he dangerous? 

He takes your chin delicately in his fingers and turns you to face him, tipping your chin up to better view him. Eyes wide, you stare obediently into his eyes, and – _wait_ – 

They’re blue, brilliantly so. He watches you through a blue so vibrant you’re positive in your heart of hearts that you have never seen another person with eyes this color. _On a dog_ , a hushed, manic voice whispers in your mind. _On a_

_(spider)_

_wolf, maybe._

“Big baby blues,” he chuckles. His other hand moves through the air and time slows down, every inch of his descent intensified in your mind’s eye. He moves with grace, with purpose, a sense of entitlement. A dare to stop him. Fingers bloom open over your leg as his palm flattens, tracing lines of fire through your jeans and gripping you in a momentary squeeze. Just testing the merchandise. Just tenderizing the meat. “The better to see you with, my dear. And what a _sight_ , huh? _Look at you,_ babydoll. Good enough to eat.” 

“I – um, please don’t… do that,” you laugh, voice shaking with the weight of your growing unease as you pull away from the fingers crooked under your chin. His eyes are still blue when you look up at him again; is your brain playing tricks on you in your distress? No longer are his eyes the shade of daffodils, the kind that grow glossy and hopeful in old ladies’ gardens, in neighborhoods full of secrets and streets that all seem to lead to dead ends facing the woods. Just mindless, hungry blue. “Please, Pennywise.” 

The clown hums, sliding his heavy hand up to where your trembling fists press into the apex of your thighs. Any will to resist or speak up is lost to you, crumbling to dust as he caresses one of your fists. His hand engulfs yours. “You know, I _really_ like that. Say my name again, sweetheart – give daddy a little sugar.” 

Your legs may as well be dead, the only sensation beyond numbness being the dull throb of your heart as it beats against its ribcage prison. He licks his lips again and you have to look away lest the scream resting behind the lump in your throat rips free. If you start screaming, you think you might never stop.

Outlined in yellow satin, twitching in time to his own heartbeat, his cock strains against the confines of his uniform. Your fingers unfold for him as he guides it away from the safety of your lap and towards his, your body having already submitted to what you know deep in the recesses of your being, written in your blood. It’s in the air like a scent. It’s in his eyes when you drag your gaze away from the obscene bulge in his lap, that you’re completely fucked, and there’s a knowing glint deep down inside, sharp as a knife. 

This time, his eyes are nearly as red as the shock of hair crowning his head. 

“You wanna be _good_ for me right about now, _toots_. Not a sorry soul can even see me – if I decide to skip the foreplay and pull your skin off like a candy wrapper, all anyone’s gunna see is a mess in the middle of the bus. _I_ don’t want that, baby girl… do _you?_ ”

You shake your head mutely, holding your breath as he slides your hand along the obscene ridge in his suit. A guilty flare of pleasure chases the adrenaline at the thought of him forcing it into your body. Intrusive images flood your mind of what he could do to you, how hard he could do it, how dangerous and surreal and mind-numbingly confusing it all feels to have tears pricking your eyes and slickness between your thighs. 

“That’s _real good_ , honey, real goddamn good – _mmh_ , hold on here – _thaaaat’s it…_ ”

He flicks his free hand at the wrist, long fingers outstretched, and there’s a series of hushed ripping sounds as gnarled claws burst from the tips of his gloves. He barks a laugh and drags one sharp talon up over the crotch of his suit. What bobs out, pale as milk and moonlight, is only vaguely humanoid at best. The sheer size of it is something to behold, heavy and thick and writhing against your palm as he uses your hand to give it a cursory stroke. There’s no visible slit at the tip – all of the thick, dark, viscous fluid dripping from it is oozing from somewhere in its firm, marbled flesh, warm enough to tingle on contact as it coats your skin and drips over your knuckles. 

“Oh my _god…_ ”

“Not god – not the kind _you_ might know. Name’s Pennywise, baby, already told ya.” He moans and tips his head back, throat exposed from the bed of ruffles and arched to showcase the silhouette of his adam’s apple. He tilts to keep his gaze on you and winks, lips parted in a bastardization of bliss, an affront to everything you hold true about pleasure and consent. “I know you’re scared. Can _smell_ it, sweet thing, and I can smell that _wet little pussy_ , too. _Oh,_ look at that blush! I love ‘em shaky, so fucking nervous. Bet you’ve never seen a dick like mine, have you? Speak up, darlin’, lemme hear that _fear_ in your voice.” 

“N-No, I… I haven’t.” 

“ _Fresh meat_.” 

You’re desperate to peel your eyes away and find yourself unable to do it. It’s hypnotizing, the way his cock pushes against your fingers and nudges you for attention like a living thing. An endless loop runs in your mind, thoughts racing through hoops like a circus, the thought of this unfathomably evil thing pushing your face against the glass of the window and yanking your jeans down to split you in half. It’s intrusive and unbearable. Nobody around you has looked your way once, and you wonder briefly if you even exist anymore in the same plane. You feel stranded, worlds away from the elderly woman four seats up and across, turned out towards her window with a pink acrylic visor not an inch from the glass. She studies the scenery or nothing at all, her companion next to her asleep with their head lolling to the side. 

“Part of you _likes_ it, don’tcha?” Pennywise growls, voice seeming to come apart at the seams like the sounds you perceive are only a mask to his true dissonance. “Don’t lie to me, now, or daddy’ll rip your lying, pink tongue right out of your throat for a snack.” 

“Yes.” 

“Yes _what_ , sugar?” 

“Yes… daddy.” It’s a lie, and it’s not. You want to crawl out of your own traitorous skin, heated through with the secret thrill of being forced to touch a stranger in the middle of the day, in public, and not only a stranger but whatever the fuck he is. He takes your other hand and clasps both of them around the base, and you’re horrified to find that you can barely touch the tips of your fingers even with both hands wrapped tightly around him. It’s awkward to lean over his lap like this, spine twisted and neck vulnerable – you know to keep the softest parts of your body safe from big predators when they’ve got you cornered. You can’t always play dead; sometimes you have to surrender and protect your throat, your belly, clench your legs together and pull them up to hide even the soft delicacy between your thighs. Sometimes you just have blind hope. And you, with both hands navigating the endless, pulsating length of him, realize that just about every vulnerable part of you is open for the taking. You have no cover and nowhere to run. 

Pennywise grunts and his jaw tightens, tears of effort gathering in his eyes. They drip down his cheeks like blood, the sour whites of his eyes wet with red. His hips rock in time with your hands. The cigar continues to burn in the corner of his mouth, forgotten and accumulating an impressive line of ash that refuses to flake off despite the gentle buck of his hips, clinging still as he looses an agonized howl when you stroke him with one hand and smear your palm over the shapely bulb of the tip. 

“That’s _good_ , baby girl, keep doing that. Keep giving daddy what he wants. You better make me cum all over this seat, you hear me? If it weren’t such a dead giveaway, I’d rip that shirt right off you in front of these people and coat your tits with it. I’d _ruin_ you. Maybe I’ll come back sometime and play with you in your bed, how’s that? You like that, princess? _Big, scary old clown_ sneakin’ in past bedtime to give his little girl what she deserves?” 

“I’ll do anything if you don’t hurt me,” you babble. “ _Anything_. I don’t want to die, I won’t tell anyone.” 

“Nobody’d believe you, anyway, sweetheart. Come on – give me a _kiss_. Give me a nice kiss with that pretty little mouth.” 

He bares his teeth in a grin too wide, wide enough to test your deteriorating sanity before he guffaws like a loon and licks a spot of blood from his lip. 

It takes an exhausting amount of self control to slowly lean in and up towards his mouth, eyes flickering between all the teeth trapped in his smirk and the way his eyes bleed for you like a religious figure, like a prized ancient relic bestowing a gift, and you ignore the implications of your hitching breaths before pressing a soft kiss against his lips. 

He follows your lead and it feels good. It feels _very good_ , shamefully good when his shark-teeth graze your lip and he teases them apart with his tongue. He tastes like smoke and sugar and some deep, wet place, something dark and earthy. All you can imagine in his kiss is fresh dirt in the cemetery, sugary treats in carnivals that are so incredibly decadent they melt on your tongue and you can taste it on your teeth for hours. Rainwater in the gutters, meat about to spoil. He’s all of that and things you can’t name, a taste so foreign and so utterly out of place that you have to stop thinking about it. When you do, you’re horrified to find yourself working him with an urgency usually reserved for lovers, for someone you’re so into getting off that it makes you painfully aware of your empty cunt and the fact that you’re whining into his mouth as he laughs against yours. He’s the one that breaks the kiss, delirious with triumph. 

“That was _something!_ Why, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you soaked your panties giving me that kiss. And what a kiss it was, baby girl, but that’s not what I _wanted_. I want you to kiss my _cock_ – go ahead. Show me how much you want me to coat you in my fucking seed, be a good girl!” 

Any hesitation to do what he says has long vanished. You’ve lost. You’re his, and his to control. When you bend over to do as he says, you’re sick to your stomach to find that his cum tastes even nicer than his mouth does, sweet as spun sugar. When you look up at him from where you hover over his lap, he fists your hair and drags his cock over and over your lips, coaxing you to lick him, kiss him, suck tiny little love-marks right into the firm, rippled flesh, a roadmap of alien veins and sinewy tendons and muscles that flex and undulate like an eel. 

“ _Fuck_ , babydoll, I’m gunna cum – I’m gunna cum all over that pink tongue, open up for me. Don’t stop stroking me off, honey, _c’mon_ – tell daddy how bad you need it, _right now._ ”

“Cum in my mouth, I want it, I want _you_ – please, daddy. Give me what I deserve,” you mumble, sliding your lips and tongue over the head. There’s no safe way you can fit it into your mouth, so you don’t even try; you lap at him like he’s a treat, breaths coming out shallow and sharp to match his. Everything reduces to tension. All that exists is this fucking clown, this monster, whatever he is, and your combined tautness. The air between you is electric and alive with the effort of helping Pennywise meet climax. He growls and it drops off into his chest, deep down in his diaphragm to vibrate up through his cock and against your slippery palms. Every inch of your flesh breaks out in goosebumps. The purring, feral sound he makes doesn’t go away as he finally thrusts up and cum throbs rhythmically out from every invisible pore, gushing, soaking into his uniform and over the ugly texture of the bus seat. It stains your thighs and fills your mouth, the previous unpleasantness gone. You lick and suck and stroke until he’s laughing, petting your hair where he once held it tight enough to put the fear of god into you. 

The reality of your situation crashes home and you sit straight as a pin, hands shaking again as you whip around to take in your surroundings. Again, nothing has changed. You are woefully alone in this fight. 

“That was really great, kid. _Really_ fucking great. Could’a swore you’ve handled something like me before – you have some history?” 

Looking back to him, your answer dies on your lips. His uniform is neatly sewn shut, void of any wet stains whatsoever, all signs of what just happened gone. Your thighs and hands and chin are dry, his face is free of blood and his eyes twinkle a vivid. Fucking. Blue. 

“I… _no,_ of course not…” 

He waggles his eyebrows and flicks the butt of his old cigar, reaching delicately for your ear and giving your lobe a light tug before pulling a fresh cigar seemingly from your ear canal. He presents it with a cheesy flourish and snorts as it lights itself up. 

“Little magic trick for you. A parting gift, if you will. Ol’ Pen’s gotta get back home, sleep it off before proper nightfall. Rest before supper.” 

_Before hunting for supper_ , you think. _That’s what he means._

“You’re a sharp one. That much I can tell. You won’t be _trouble_ for me, will ya? Don’t much like killing off the fun ones, little girl. Be a cryin’ shame, offing a shiny new toy like _you_. Be good for daddy and I’ll make it worth your while. Oh, and keep the doors locked; never know what’s waiting for you out in the night.” 

The bus screeches to a jerky halt and your attention is on the driver, a man who glances in the oversized rearview mirror and apologizes at no one in particular. The time it takes to turn back around is all he needs – Pennywise is gone. The only proof of his ever having existed is the dying taste of candy on your tongue and the sensation of his alien cock imprinted on the still-tingling flesh of your hands and fingers, the nip of his cannibal teeth ripe on your lips.


End file.
